James BryceIF you’ve seen the mezquita, OD’d on Spanish ‘old towns’ and witnessed enough bull-bothering to last you a lifetime, chances are you’re gagging for a change.
Well, fear not – no matter how quirky your cultural preference, you can bet your bottom euro that Valencia will cater for it.
That’s because Spain’s ‘third city’ is strewn with art –some of it in the oddest of places.
For instance, who on Earth would expect to find ‘penis asparagus’ in a sober-looking ceramics gallery? (Palacio del Marquis de Dos Aguas)
‘Penis Asparagus’ – what’s that all about? It makes Heston Blumenthal’s snail porridge seem as bland as Bury black pudding.
Anyway, once you’ve finished dicking about, head over to the Jardines de Turia to check out the intriguing Parque Gulliver sculpture.
Built in 1990, this 220ft tall ‘playground man’ has touched more young buttocks than the late Jimmy Savile.
That’s because Gulliver’s giant body morphs into plunging ‘death slides’ – which in the UK would have Claims Direct written all over them.
Despite this, the children seem happy enough, zipping down vertical slopes like knee-high ninjas.
To be fair, I only observed a couple of slipped discs and one fatal neck break – perhaps we do mollycoddle our kids in England!
They say a great city evolves on its skin, and it’s not hyperbole to say Valencia’s walls house Europe’s finest street murals.
It all started in the 1980s when pockets of young Spaniards hopped onto the hip-hop bandwagon (i.e. by boddypopping and keeping their ‘hoes’ on dog leads).
Inspired by the New York scene, these grafiteros marked city buildings like Justin Lee Collins marks ladies’ faces.
While awe-inspiring, many of these murals border on hardcore pornography.
Indeed, in the fashionable Barrio del Carmen district I saw more muffs than a Middlesbrough maternity ward.
Hot and bothered, I decided to make my way towards the city’s main train station.
But remember, this is Valencia.
I’d only stumbled a few feet before finding myself surrounded by more protruding sex glands in the ancient Lonja de Mercaderes square, where grotesque gargoyles openly pleasure themselves.
In a country full of sex and nudity, the sight of monks pleasuring themselves shouldn’t really have fazed me.
But it was their positioning on cathedral walls that really knocked me for six.
Back in the 15th century, these statues were ‘erected’ as deterrents – warning horny hombres to keep it in their trousers.
Fast forward 530 years and these obscene ornaments seem to be having the opposite effect.
How else could you explain the scores of young bucks below, locked together by burning loins?
The Valencians seem to have invented a unique way of bonking whilst fully clothed and they were going at it hell for leather beneath the ‘banging bishops’. Honestly, is nothing sacred anymore?
So, with a camera full of oddities – and semi in my trousers – I boarded the train back to normality.
Well, when I say normality I’ll have to keep an eye out for dong-flogging and slug-tugging next time I visit the old Mezquita.
